


The Title / The Mask

by randompandemic



Series: Fifteen Kisses [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Perc'ahlia, So much angst, Vex'ahlia is there in spirit :P
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randompandemic/pseuds/randompandemic
Summary: Percy mulls over his conversation with Vex about how she and her brother were judged as children, and he has trouble containing how furious he is at the people who made her feel so insecure even now. But what can he do to help her? What can he possibly offer her but words?Vex'ahlia can't get too close. She'll only get hurt and she knows it. She knows there is honly heartbreak in this. But can she really walk away from the broken fool engulfed in smoke and lost in his vengeance?





	1. Percy: The Title

**Author's Note:**

> The second in my series of Perc'ahlia kisses - even if it's just imaginary kisses :P

In retrospect, he should have gone about it differently.

This was _exactly_ why he liked to plan things out, why he was not a spontaneous person, why he handled on-the-fly decisions poorly. How was he supposed to react when Vex’ahlia, just between the two of them, had told him about her childhood in this city? About being judged for her half-human blood, for her mother’s identity, for something as meaningless as the shape of her ears. How was he _supposed_ to handle the tears she tried to hide, just because of the memories of this place? Percy had no sense of what was ‘too much’ – was releasing a bloody demon on the people that had made her feel so unworthy all her life too much? Because Gods, that was exactly what he wanted to do. Make these people pay for burdening her with a lifetime of feeling inadequate.

What he would not give to make her see just how precious she was, how extraordinary, how beautiful and radiant and untameable and beautiful and –

He had already been over beautiful, had he?

What good were the words he had offered her? What good did it do her that _he_ thoughts she was worth more than the lot of them, worth more than anyone who had ever thought to have the right to judge her. His words meant nothing. He should have _done_ something to make her understand that she had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to feel unworthy for. He should have done something _meaningful_.

He wanted to go back there, turn back time. He wanted to stop her from remembering the tears she had shed as a child, wanted to swoop in before she could be sad. All he wanted now was to cradle her face between his hands and kiss her, pour all his adoration into his kiss to make her see, make her understand just how...

To kiss the tears from her cheeks, shower her in all the affection he held but had no bloody clue how to express. He imagined the scene differently than what had played out, imagined what it could have been. He could imagine what it would feel like to have her breath close to his lips. He could imagine brushing his nose against hers, his thumbs brushing the tears from her cheeks as gentle as he could. He imagined wrapping his arms around her, holding her, comforting her with words that could adequately provide her with the support and affirmation she needed. And, in the wildest version of this moment he could imagine, she would cling to him, too, hold on to him, accepting what little of a sad, broken, blackened heart he had left to offer to her. And he gladly would offer it, if only it could make her feel as divine as he thought her to be.

But Gods, he was bad at this. He wanted her to know. Wanted her to know that, at least to him, she was the most astonishing being in the whole world. Wanted her to know that her support and understanding gave him a reason to carry on, to not let his own past mistakes consume him like they used to. There was so much he wanted to tell her, and every time he had a chance, his tongue just turned into a big lump of clay in his mouth and nothing would come out. His words were nothing.

But, it occurred to him, there was _something_ he could do. There was a power he had - by his birth right he never truly cared for other than to protect Whitestone - that might _actually_ do something good for a change. He could elevate her, far above any of the snide voices that might have made her feel ‘less than’ in the past.

He could title her.

There was a number of titles available, after their clean-out operation in Whitestone. What was to stop him from giving one to her? Dropping it, when least expected. Dropping it in the moment it would have the heaviest impact on her life.

In front of her father, perhaps? Yes, that would work, right? That was better than words. Perhaps better than his heart, because honestly, what use would she have of his heart? He barely had a use for it himself.  

Of course, he would have to talk it through with Cassandra later, but if he explained it, surely she would understand? As he made his way to the others, his plan grew, and so did his determination. He would not let her feel ‘less than’ ever again, in her life. Not if there was something he could do about it. And if there was one individual in the world he truly believed deserved a title, it was Vex’ahlia.

 _Lady Vex’ahlia_ , he corrected himself with a smile. _Lady Vex’ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone, Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt._

Yes. That would do nicely.


	2. Vex'ahlia: The Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vex'ahlia makes a choice.

Vex’ahlia will never be able to cast this image out of her mind. She will never shake the way it scares her to see him like that. The pale beaked mask hiding his face, hiding his bright blue eyes, black smoke ghosting around him, whirling over his shoulders, through his white hair, from his arms. Pepperbox in hand, finger still pressing down on the trigger as the man collapsed, blood and brains spattered behind him. She can see the faintest tremble in Percy’s hand, even as he seems frozen, still as a statue in the moment. The name vanishes from the barrel of the gun in purple smoke and it is quiet, the beast sated in its hunger for souls. At least for the moment.  

She is scared. Of him? _For_ him? Both, maybe? She has seen many horrible things in her life, but she is beginning to get a sense of just how deeply broken he was by what had happened here all those years ago. She begins to get a sense of what made him so driven, so focused, of what his hunger for revenge has really done to him. And she is frightened for him, frightened this might consume him and leave nothing of the man she-

She crosses the distance and reaches out to him. His hand is cold to the touch, and hard as stone. Her fingers barely breach the dark smoke surrounding him and she tries not to tremble in fear, tries not to show her insecurity about this. Can she even reach him? Will he even _hear_ her in there?

“Percival? …How are you?” she asks. She can hear his growled response: _‘Fine’_. Like it’s not even him talking. It’s barely even his voice.  

He is _not_ fine, and she can feel that, down to the marrow of her bones she can feel that Percival is fighting a losing battle for his soul against something much darker and much more terrifying than she had fully understood before right now. _What are you doing, Vex?_ She asks herself. _You will get hurt. There is only hurt there, for both of you. Walk away now, while you still can. You can’t save him, you can’t take fight this, you can’t get close to this, there is only pain and heartbreak at the end of that road for you._ And she feels so foolish. Because she knows all this. She knows deep down that no matter how this plays out, there can be no happiness. This is not the fairytale of the handsome, troubled noble finding love and overcoming his demons to be with the peasant girl. Fairytales don’t exist, there is no happily ever after in this. He will not overcome his demons just for her, and even if, she will never be enough, and in the end she would be the one left alone and with a broken heart.  

And still…

She rises to stand face to face, her other hand comes to the cold surface of the mask. She cannot see his eyes in the glass filled holes where they should be, barely a glint of blue in the darkness, and she is not sure if he can truly see her at all. Maybe she is just a disembodied voice to him, like a distant memory. Maybe she’s nothing at all. And maybe he is not there at all. Maybe there is something else entirely around him, with barely a hint of… him, left in there. And the thought scares her more than she wants to admit. The thought of losing him to something so dark, the thought of being powerless to reach him. She can’t. She _can’t_ lose him. Even if it will break her heart to allow herself to _feel_ this, she can’t lose him.

“Darling, take the mask off,” she says, her voice more sure and calm than she feels inside. For she feels only turmoil. There is nothing from him. He does not move, and she doubts he has even heard her. She wants to rip the mask off his face, wrap her arms around him and hold him, her lips pressed against his, to pull him out of that darkness, beg him to come back to her. To her. But she does none of these things. She just stands defeated by black smoke, and finally turns to return to the battle still raging around them.  

When he finally pulls back the mask and the darkness splits open to set him free, she feels a sigh of relief come over her lips. She does not know what reached him in the end, what made him snap out of it, if it was here words or if it had nothing to do with her at all, but she is so relieved her Percival is back. And she promises she will never allow this darkness, this black smoke, to consume him ever again, will never let him fall prey to it again. She wants to be his light, wants to be good enough, bright enough, to protect him from the darkness, wants it more than he can ever know.


End file.
